


There are wolves in the world

by apinkducky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Arranged Marriage, M/M, prince!derek, prince!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6579034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apinkducky/pseuds/apinkducky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An arranged marriage brought them together, but a difference in social ideologies made it impossible for them to get along. Derek thought Stiles reckless, and Stiles thought him a coward. </p>
<p>They couldn't have been more wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There are wolves in the world

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for the [ Sterek Writers Network's Spring Fic exchange](http://sterekwriters.tumblr.com/post/142903456793/salutations-friends-as-promised-below-you-will)
> 
> Hello!  
> So, this is an attempt in writing a royalty AU. I hope I didn't mess up royally :P
> 
> Special thanks to [ Jacqui ](http://captaintinymite.tumblr.com/) for the amazing beta <3  
> Any mistakes are mine.

“And you think that having this vigilante running free in our lands, scaring our people, stealing and setting fires on properties, is a thing that should be allowed, then?”

Stiles was tense like a bow, his shoulders so strained he could break any moment. His nostrils flared with anger, his lips drawn in a tight line but, thankfully, he bowed his head and let his eyes fall on the table. “No, your grace. Those are crimes and crimes are punishable. But there are people in our land that suffer, and until now only rich—”

“So now you are telling me how to rule my land?”

“Stiles, please,” Derek said with a low voice. He didn’t care if he sounded like pleading, because he was. His uncle, Peter of the Haleland, was a powerful and corrupted man. If Stiles wasn’t cautious with his words, the fact that they were married wouldn’t matter at all. His uncle would make Stiles suffer nonetheless.

“I have no such right, your grace.”

It was obvious that he had wanted to say more from the way his knuckles had gone white holding the utensils to the fact that he was biting his tongue to stop himself from speaking. He didn’t though, and Derek let out a relieved breath.

“Then it is of no argue that we should arrest this man and punish him for his crimes.” Stiles nodded. Derek took a sip from his wine. “See? We agree with each other. There is no place for such arguments among us. We are a family after all.”

Stiles licked his lips, wise enough not to deny his uncle’s proclamations. “Yes, your grace.” And, still, Derek hated that Stiles had to swallow his pride and agree, even seemingly, with him. Stiles was a wild spirit, a man with a deep inner justice and appreciation for everyone in this world. His father had brought him up to be fair and kind and love his people, but, in this land, he didn’t have a chance to do anything.

Their marriage had been a political affair, of course. They didn’t have the time to court or get to know each other. It was three moons from the moment it was announced to them that they would get wed, and they met each other exactly three times before the ceremony. Despite Derek’s attempt to get to know him, Stiles had been cold, tense, and Derek didn’t blame him. He was twenty years old, young to be crowned king but old enough to be in love. Stiles had been open to him about it from their first meeting.

“I don’t love you, my lord.”

“Derek. I will be your husband, soon. You can call me Derek.” He had thought that such attempt would make the ice break between them, make Stiles think he was looking at a friend. He had been wrong.

“There is a woman I’ve loved for years.”

Derek had tried to hide his disappointment that weighted inside his stomach like a stone. “Of course. But I would appreciate if we could just try and be friends.”

Stiles had huffed then, and it was the way he had shook his head and the hard smile he gave him, that Derek thought he had no chance after all. “Friends? You bought me, taking advantage of our economic difficulties but good social status. I won’t pretend that I like you, so please, don’t pretend that you care. My lord.”

Things didn’t change in the following meetings or after the wedding. They shared a bed but only to sleep. Derek didn’t care in consummating their marriage since Stiles was unwilling. He would never force himself on his husband. Yet, despite the circumstances under which they wedded, Derek had hoped to find a close friend, one to whom he would be able to share his deepest thoughts and fears and wishes. After his sister got married, he had been alone for years. The only persons to show interest in him or his well-being were his guards. Boyd, Erica and Isaac were loyal to him to their bone, and Derek would always be grateful to them, but the emptiness in his heart was there, a rusty nail inside him that he didn’t seem able to pull out. Stiles was a beautiful man, passionate and clever, and Derek, to this day, hoped that things were different, that they could erase their loneliness standing next to each other, maybe even their friendship to evolve into affection.

The screeching sound of a chair pushed against the stony tiles drawn his attention back to Stiles who was excusing himself, letting his napkin fall into his plate without care. Peter’s expression bore a wry satisfaction, like a cat toying with its prey and Derek had to retain the urge to throw something at him. Like the knife he was still holding.

Instead, he let the knife on the table with the elegance his mother had been so insisting on teaching him and folded his own napkin before leaving it next to his plate. “Excuse me.” He pushed his chair without a sound and stood.

“It’s obvious he does not deserve you, Derek. His upbringing is proof of how much he lacks compared to you.”

“He is my husband, though.” One that Peter had chosen for him, in fact.

“My concern, as your uncle, is your happiness and you do not seem happy in this marriage. He hurts you, Derek, and this saddens me. I only wish you two got along better.” His voice was painted with fake sadness. Peter didn’t care; he was only referring to his marriage for one reason. “And maybe talk to him about his manners in front of his king. Impertinence shall not be excused; not even for the prince.”

“Of course, uncle. Now, if you’d excuse me.” Peter made a dismissive gesture with his hand, and Derek gave a short bow and left the hall, heading to his and Stiles’ quarters.

Stiles was there, sitting on the desk, scribbling on a paper. Derek doubted he was writing anything of importance; he was only trying to avoid him.

“Stiles, could I please have a minute?”

“For what?” Stiles never looked up. “Do you want to teach me of better manners? Or maybe, show me how I should behave in front of my King?”

“You heard.”

Stiles threw the fountain pen on the paper, splattering ink all over the page. “It’s surprising that you think I even need to hear that. You are so naïve.”

“Am I? Do you have any idea how it sounds when you defend so vehemently this vigilante and disrespect your king? You would be lucky if he does not arrest you for being the very man you support.” Derek’s heart was beating fast. Their exchanges were always limited to the necessary, enough to portray a good marriage in front of their people. They had fought only a handful of times, never about their relationship, always about the land and the way it suffered under Peter. It was the first time Derek had to warn Stiles like that, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Unless he believes me as some kind of wizard, he will let me go when the next attack occurs.” Stiles stood, smirking. “You allow yourself to be pushed around by your uncle and you don’t care about your land. It’s easier, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Submit without a fight.”

Derek frowned, trying to keep his face devoid of any expression. He knew Stiles didn’t have a good opinion of him, but he had never thought he was considering him a coward. “Is this how you see me?”

“Would I be mistaken?”

Would he? Stiles never cared to learn anything about him. Not once did he ask him about simple things like his day or his business or even his tastes. Granted, Derek hadn’t asked, either, but it was only because it was obvious he was unwanted. But with everything Stiles thought he knew about him—

“No. You wouldn’t.” Derek walked to the window, pulling the curtain and looking outside, to his land. A land that used to prosper under his mother’s rule, where the only problems it faced were outside threats. His mother was a visionary queen, caring for the poor and taking steps towards eradicating economic and educational inequalities. It wasn’t a quick process, and it wasn’t easy, but she was trying, planning personal visits to underdeveloped areas and open discussions with the people involved.

Now, his land was dying in Peter’s hands, and Derek hated himself for not being able to change things. Under the pretext that Laura wasn’t of age to take the throne, Peter had succeeded Derek’s mother when she died. Two years later, he changed the law and upped the age for the succession from eighteen to twenty five. Laura would be twenty five in less than a year, and instead of being hopeful of what would come with her birthday, Derek feared for her life. The attempts against here were one too many already.

He wished he could talk to Stiles. The need for another mind in all this was overwhelming, but there was nothing between them except anger and despise.

“This land… was beautiful once,” he said, his grip tightening on the curtain’s plain white fabric.

“You have a responsibility as the prince.”

“But I’m not the successor for the throne.”

“Are you saying you’ve been waiting for time to pass, to have your sister take the throne? I assure you, it’s a brilliant plan, especially the part where your people hate you and everyone but the rich in your land would prefer you dead. Oh, and did I forget about the enemies that are ready to take advantage of the fact that your uncle is unable to rule?” Stiles winked at him and applauded slowly in mocking approval. “Just brilliant.”

Derek closed his eyes and swallowed, the lack of effort in understanding from Stiles’ like a vice around his chest. “What would have me do under the circumstances?” Tell me.

Please.

The answer came immediately, Stiles’ voice cold and distant. “Trying harder would be a good start.”

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Derek turned to him. “Is this why you want nothing to do with me, because I don’t try enough?”

Stiles’ eyes drifted away. “It’s because I don’t love you. I’ve told you that from our first meeting.”

“And you could never learn to love me.”

Brown eyes were back at his, burning with fiery passion. “How could I?” 

His teeth rattled in his mouth from the sheer force of clinking them together. He nodded, letting his hope die alongside his land.

“I see.”

Derek left the room and didn’t return that night.

 

***

 

The arrow landed in front of Spark who was trotting leisurely and scared her. Letting out a loud neigh, she rose on her hind legs and took two steps back. Stiles’ hand petted her neck, murmuring reassuring words to calm her and not throw him off in her fear. The guards that accompanied him in this hunt gathered around him, Scott standing close to him, looking alert.

One of the guards got off his horse and pulled the arrow from the ground. “It’s died black,” he said while his horse turn and he handed the arrow to Stiles.

Scott was frowning. “The Black Wolf?”

The Black Wolf, or the vigilante as Peter and Derek prefer to call him, refusing to use the moniker the people had given him, had been targeting the rich and that was a well-known fact, but he had never killed anyone. “I don’t –“

The next arrow hit one of his guards and Scott took the lead. “Let’s head back to the castle. Now!”

Stiles turned Spark around who was more than happy to change her trot to a full gallop, giving in to the feeling of freedom that came with it. Though Spark was faster than the guards’ and Scott’s horses, Stiles made sure he was not in the lead. If someone was after him, he would be an idiot to be alone just because he had a fast horse.

He let them circle him as possible as it was in the thick forest. He almost thought no one was after them but the arrow that struck the horse next to him, made him reconsider. The horse crashed on Spark, who fell on the ground pulling Stiles with her. He had no idea how she didn’t crush his leg, but as what remained of his guard gathered around him yet again, he stood with ease and checked mentally for injuries. His heart hammered in his chest and his only relief came from the fact that Scott was still intact. His childhood friend that came to serve Peter after Stiles got married was the closest thing he had to a family in this strange place and he’d be damned if he lost him.

“Stiles, are you injured?”

“I’m fine.”

Scott extended his hand, “Get on. We have to get you back to the castle.” Stiles grabbed his hand but an arrow landed next to his horse’s hoof, sending the animal into frenzy. Scott kept his balance, albeit with difficulty. What followed next was a bloodbath as more arrows rained down upon them and Stiles let go of Scott’s hand, realizing that they had no other solution but to flee to different directions.

Stiles sprinted as hard as the terrain allowed, his legs catching in tree roots every other step. He was far from the most elegant runner, his footing wasn’t careful and he was sure he was making so much noise, he was practically inviting whomever was after him to find him. This time though, it didn’t matter at all; his life far more precious than his running poise. When his lungs burned inside his chest with every breath, he hid himself behind a tree- hardly the perfect hideout but the only one he had. Spark was nowhere to be seen, and his guards were all injured if not dead. Why would the Black Wolf attack him, or better yet, why did was he trying to kill him?

The irony fell on him like a bad joke, that he would defend the man to Peter only to fall by his hand. Although, deep down, he knew he wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t be. Anyone could paint an arrow black, after all.

The shuffling sound behind him made him turn, his breath caught in his throat. A man dressed in black attire, his face hidden beneath a mask, approached him with a knife in each hand. Stiles drew his sword, although he knew his fighting skills weren’t as proficient as Derek’s.

Derek. 

What would he say if he learned the Black Wolf attacked him? What would he do if Stiles died? Three nights ago, when last they spoke, Stiles had been shaken to his core by the raw tension in Derek’s shoulders. His husband was a silent man in most of his dealings. He wasn’t demanding or pressing, and he was a gentleman through and through. Yet, he was also a spineless creature that let himself become a pawn to his corrupted uncle’s insidious plans.

Sometimes, Stiles thought that if he gave Derek an opportunity to get to know him, it would give an end to the cold isolation he felt ever since he got to Haleland. His chances with Lydia had never been real, not if he were being honest with himself. Besides, she had been married now for four months. There was no reason for Stiles to continue being emotionally distant from Derek other than the way he didn’t react to his oppressive uncle. It was the main reason that when thoughts of reconciliation and friendship came to his mind, he burnt them. Derek, no matter how good of a man, smart or skillful with the sword and the arrow he was, remained a person without motivation, and Stiles was determined to avoid burying himself with someone that his conscience allowed him to sleep at night peacefully while his land was on fire.

The man in black advanced, and Stiles moved away from the tree. Getting trapped between two knives and a trunk could be bad for his health. The attack consisted of two rapid, consecutive strokes, high right - low left. Stiles dodged them with ease, slapping away the first knife and then, swinging his sword half-circle to the ground, he struck the second. Stepping to the side as he defended himself, he recognized that maintaining distance would be the key if he wanted to keep using his sword and not allow the man any way to pierce into his personal space. Of course, that meant keep moving, avoiding roots and plants, balanced and accurate footing, to none of which Stiles was particularly expert. 

The second attack was more difficult to evade, what with the man coming at him first from the right going for his ribs only to twist his body around at the last moment, turn his back to Stiles and bring the knife down in an attempt to stab Stiles on his left thigh.

Stiles would have been impressed if he wasn’t shocked. There he was, unable to walk backwards, and the man was practically dancing with his back at him. The thoughts of his personal inefficiency at battle didn’t last long as he saw an opening and he took advantage of it, landing a hit with his sword’s hilt to the man’s neck. In his effort to quickly manage another hit, he tripped on a log as he took an uncertain step to the left. He fell on his elbow. Sharp jolts of pain radiated up his arm, and his sword skidded away from him. Weaponless and vulnerable, Stiles had to focus entirely now since the man only needed an accurate strike to kill him. He pulled his knee close to his chest in a last attempt to protect himself at the man’s advance, when a second person appeared - him too, dressed in black and wearing a mask.

Stiles whined inwardly, yet he kicked his attacker in the area most sensitive for a man, and he winced at the painful gasp. He wasn’t going to get out of this alive but, no matter the odds, he would not give up; after all, he didn’t know how. His father had taught him to fight tooth and nail, and concede defeat only when it was for the best. His death wasn’t the best, that was for sure.

As he took a shallow breath and reached for his sword hoping for the best, the newly-arrived figure lunged after the man wielding the knives. Stiles barely saw his movements. The only proof that there was any kind of fight was the body collapsing on the ground.

And then, over the sound of his labored breathing, Stiles heard a groan, and the man who had helped him crumpled to his knees like a broken toy. The instinct that told him to run when the arrows were flying was nowhere to be found now as Stiles approached him with careful steps. The hesitation left him quickly when another groan followed.

Stiles scurried to him and helped him sit against a tree. “Are you hurt?” Which wasn’t the brightest question, considering the arrow protruding from the man’s shoulder. A black arrow. “Who are you?” He was ready to step back and run away, because this situation had been spinning out of control, when a hand on his wrist stopped him.

“Don’t. It’s a trap.” The stranger's words were hoarse from pain and the mask covering his face.

“What? First you trap me, and then you change your mind?”

“Not me.”

“Are you kidding? I hope you’re kidding because you’re a masked man dressed in black killing another man that looks exactly like you.”

“And having a black arrow buried in my shoulder. Would I shoot myself?”

“No. But maybe your people betrayed you.”

“Or maybe,” the man reached up and removed his mask, “it was a trap.”

The face staring back at Stile was familiar. Too familiar. “Derek?”

“Keep your voice down,” he said irritably. “It wasn’t me.”

“It wasn’t you trying to kill me, or you’re not the vigilante?”

“I’m the Black Wolf. And I’m not trying to kill you. Someone is though…”

“And they’re trying to frame you,” Stiles finished Derek’s sentence without noticing. He stood still, mouth agape as his mind processed the information at hand.

Derek, the coward that Stiles had stubbornly avoided all this time, was the man who was defending the poor.

“Are you insane?”

The question came out louder than he intended, and Derek’s hand was on his wrist again, shushing him at the same time. “You’ll get us both killed,” he hissed, “and I’m in no position to protect you right now.”

Stiles swallowed a curse and ran his eyes over Derek. He was favoring his injured shoulder and his ribs, both on the left side. Blood soaked through his black clothing, making it glisten under the setting sun. “How bad are your wounds?”

“I’m fine.”

“You need a medic.”

“You call for anyone and they’ll –“

“I’m not calling anyone. We need to take you in a safe place first, though.” Stiles looked around, ignoring the pang of worry uncurling in his stomach. Hunting in this side of the forest for the last year, provided him with a deep knowledge of the area. Thankfully. “There is a cabin in less than a mile to the east from here,” he said pointing at the same time.

“The hunter’s cabin?” Derek looked around too, his eyes less focused, as if he couldn’t believe they were so close.

“Yes. Can you go there on your own? I will come and find you as soon as I go back and show them I’m alive.”

Derek shook his head. “It’s not safe to go alone.”

“Because hiding in the forest forever while you’re missing, too, is such a great alternative.”

“Stiles, whoever that was, will try again.”

Stiles knew that. And he had a very good idea of who was that wanted him dead, too. But this wasn’t the time for conversation. Derek was bleeding and, soon, his guards – those that had remained alive, oh please let Scott be alive- would be searching for him. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I have to return, tonight,” he bit out tiredly. “My trip to the Itos…”

“If you come back tonight in this shape, Peter will find out about you. Go to the cabin. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Nodding, Derek attempted to stand on his own and failed. Stiles helped him up and held him until he was no longer swaying dangerously. Before he left, Derek caught his wrist again. “We’ll find a way out of this,” Stiles said with certainty, even if he didn’t really know how. Yet.

“Stiles… stay alive.”

Stiles covered his hand with his own, squeezing it, and locked their eyes together. “You too.”

 

***

 

Stiles found Scott - or better yet, Scott found Stiles- his hair askew, his cheeks flushed from running and his characteristics etched with worry. He was riding Spark, and when he saw Stiles, he just extended his hand for him to climb up. Together, they rode to the castle, nary a word spoken between them. 

Stiles thought about confiding in him what has happened but decided against it. Not now and certainly not in the forest that had become an entrapment and graveyard for five of his guards.

In the main hall, perched upon his throne, sat Peter, who blanched when he saw them, a worried look replacing shock on his face.

“Stiles? What happened?” He looked behind them, his characteristics hard as he took in that they were alone. “Where are your guards?”

Stiles let himself look afraid. Half of it was true anyway. “Someone attacked us,” he said.

“Someone?” Peter turned to Scott searching for answers.

“Black arrows, your grace,” Scott offered, bowing his head. Despite his fear, Stiles almost smiled. He rubbed his eyes with both hands to hide his reaction. He intended to let Peter believe that he believed it was the Black Wolf, and Scott’s honesty was convenient.

Peter’s eyebrow raised to the roots of his hair, seemingly surprised. And then he frowned with anger, as if it dawned on him. “The Black Wolf! He dared touch one of the princes!” He turned to Stiles. “And you believed he was trying to help the poor,” the undisguised venom in his words let no room for Stiles to doubt that this was a show. Peter’s feign concern and anger weren’t for Stiles being in danger but for him not being dead. 

“He is after the family, Stiles, and we have to find him. He must pay for his crimes.” He gestured to one of his men and murmured something. “Go rest,” he said to Stiles, “You need it. We will talk in the morning, when Derek returns from his trip to the land of the Itos.”

Stiles bowed and scurried out of the hall, Scott on his tail. Once they were in quarters, Stiles made sure no one was outside the door and turned to Scott. “I need a horse.”

“What?”

“I have to go out for a while. And I also need bandages and—“

“Stiles what are you talking about? We just managed to bring you back alive, you can’t get out again. Alone. And where are you even going to go?”

Stiles sighed. “I can’t tell you.”

The stricken look Scott gave him made him feel guilty. “Why?”

“Things are… complicated.”

“Stiles, you can trust me. You know that right?”

“I know, I know. I trust you; it is these walls and the ears within them that I doubt.” He carded his fingers through his hair, biting his lips, thinking of the possibilities and all of them terrified him. “This is dangerous, Scott. I can’t have you risk your life like this. Things can take a bad turn and I can’t let you do this.”

Scott laid a hand on his shoulder and offered him one of those generous smiles of his that could warm the heart of the coldest man. “I came here to protect you. You’re my brother.”

Stiles opened his mouth to answer, but he had nothing to say to him, so he closed it again and smiled back at him. “Fine,” he nodded. “Fine. So,” he looked around, pulled him further in the room and then whispered, “Peter made a plan to make it look like the Black Wolf was trying to kill me- which he wasn’t, because it’s Derek, - incredible I know! he even saved me!- but it was him who was trying to kill me all along, and now I have to help him because he’s injured trying to protect me.”

“Who, Peter?”

“No, Derek.”

“Derek is the one trying to kill you?”

“What? No. Derek is injured.”

“And he’s the Black Wolf.”

“Yes. And Peter is trying to kill me.”

“But Peter isn’t the Black Wolf.”

“Of course not. Derek is the Black Wolf.”

“Stiles, concentrate and take it from the beginning.”

Stiles groaned. He didn’t have time for this. He took a deep breath and started over. “Scott, Derek is the Black Wolf, and, no, he didn’t try to kill me. Peter, the king, tried to kill me and blame my death on the Black Wolf. Derek, who is the Black Wolf, came to my rescue and saved me from my attackers, and now he’s alone and injured and he needs help.”

Scott nodded. “I’ll go to the medic, see what I can grab that might be of assistance to you. Meet me at the barn, from the kitchen door, in twenty minutes.”

Stiles patted Scott’s back gratefully. “Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me about. Besides, I’m coming with you.”

“What? No, Scott. You have to stay behind. Cover us. If anyone comes –“

“And what if someone attacks you on the way?”

“They won’t. Not if they don’t know where or who I am.” Scott looked at him from head to toe, taking in his garments and raising a curious eyebrow at the exceptional fabric, the Hale emblem on the sleeve and the light silver chain on his neck that Derek gave him upon their wedding.

“Of course, I’ll change. And I won’t take Sparks. Satisfied?”

“Far from it.”

“Scott, please. Besides, there is another thing I want you to do after I go.” He didn’t want to say that Derek might be dying as they were having a conversation over his clothes, but he couldn’t stop the fast rate his heart had been beating ever since he learned the identity of the Black Wolf. Instead, he tried to concentrate on what needed to be done. 

The mere idea that this was Derek was almost out of this world. And, yet, it was true.

“You’re worried,” Scott said finally.

“I am.”

“Why? You don’t even like him.”

“I…” Stiles licked his lips, placing his hand in his waist, changing the foot he was putting his weight on. “I like him, Scott. That’s the problem. That was always the problem.”

 

***

 

The horse Scott chose for him wasn’t as fast as he’d like. Every minute he spent away from Derek was a minute Derek was closer to bleeding to death. Death wasn’t an option Stiles wanted to consider for him.

He dismounted before the horse had stopped and ran to the cabin. Just before he was ready to burst into the small room, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he made himself stop. The door was ajar. From the small crack, the dim light of a candle lamp flickering against the walls was visible. With dread, Stiles nudged the wooden door that always creaked as it opened, peering inside with cautiousness despite the voice in his head that was screaming for him to hurry.

The cabin’s meager contents had been provided for the purpose of a short stay on account of inclement weather or emergency. There was a bed upon which sat a mattress made of hay. Rugs lay scattered throughout to keep moisture from seeping through the floorboards. There was also a wooden round table and two, no, three chairs around it. Next to the fireplace, mugs and cookware hung from nails on the walls that reflected light with a warm copper color around the cabin.

Stiles walked inside. Derek wasn’t there but proof of his presence was on the table: a broken arrow, blooded pieces of cloth and scarlet handprints.  
Taking a risk he couldn’t afford, Stiles called, “Derek?”

Footsteps sounded behind him. Stiles had forgotten the door open, the touch on his back causing him to yelp and jump like a skittish rabbit further into the cabin.

“For the love of the Goddess!” he said turning around only to see Derek closing the door and leaning against it. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure I stay alive,” Derek mumbled. His shirt was a bundle in his hands against the slashes on his ribs. Pieces of it were wrapped around the wound on his bicep while his naked torso was smeared with blood.

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine,” he said and pushed off against the door behind him, staggering to the corner and the chair facing the door – that had a view on the door—and collapsing on it.

“You sure look like it.” Derek’s look was accusatory, even angry as he tried to keep every expression out of his face, clenching his jaw so hard it could have easily been mistaken for pain. It might as well be. “Look, I’m not here to fight you. I brought some things from the medic.” Stiles let the bag fall from his shoulder before setting it on the table, opening it, and bringing out the contents. Bandages, poultice for the infection, willow bark broth for the pain, and a clean pair of clothes.

Derek looked at them without saying a word.

“Will you let me look at—“

“I will do it.”

Stiles didn’t want to argue. There was something there, in the way Derek avoided his eyes, at the semi-hostile tone of his voice. As if Stiles’ presence there was wrong somehow. 

Then, it hit him. 

Of course it was wrong. If Derek was the Black Wolf, then he had been tending his wounds on his own for a long time, while now, he had to trust a man that had never been good to him. Stiles could see himself doing the same if their situations have been reversed, and the reality of it twisted his stomach into a dense knot.

He took a step back, raising his hands in surrender, and took a seat on the chair at the opposite side of the table. This apparently was the signal for Derek to move, as he reached for the poultice and spread it on the knife wounds, hissing when it made contact with his severed flesh. He unwrapped the wound on his bicep and repeated the process. Bile rose to Stiles’ throat as he watched the sure, almost clinical movements of Derek's hands, experienced even though they trembled from the pain and exhaustion. These weren't the first wounds Derek had tended on his own.

“You have done this before.” The words left Stiles’ mouth before he had the chance to stop them and the only answer he got was a huff. Of course.

 

Did Derek have more wounds while they were sleeping together? Stiles didn’t remember but, on the other hand, he had never seen him change either. Derek was always covered by his clothes, or his nightgown, or his armor. Even after sparring, he never changed in front of anyone.

"How long have you been doing this?"

Stiles was determined not to let this pass without words or explanations. When Derek sighed and fell back on the chair defeated, Stiles breathed with relief. Derek was willing to share.

"Ever since he started marrying off my sisters.”

“Three years.”

Derek nodded and reached for the bandages. He first wrapped his arm. It took him longer than it would have if he had allowed Stiles to help him, but Stiles had the wisdom not to point this out. Irritation mounted inside him with every passing moment. Yet, he knew that they needed to talk for once instead of fighting.

When he moved to wrap his ribs, Derek worked steadier and surer. He finished quickly, sweat dripping from his brows while, eyes closed, he tried to catch his breath.

“Drink the broth, too. The medic prides himself on this thing.” The medic did take great pride not just in the broth he made to alleviate pain but also on his craft. So great, in fact, that he taught Stiles in his workshop. It had been four months since he had started spending his hours with the medic, and this willow bark broth mixed with other herbs was one of the medications Stiles had learned to make first.

Derek reached for the bottle and opened the lid. He took three sips, as Stiles was ready to tell him the dose and inform him of the consequences of overdose – three sips before sleep, three sips after breakfast and not a single one more if you didn’t want to sleep for the rest of the day like the dead- and then put the lid back on.

Stiles exhaled. “I see. So you have taken it before.” Derek raised an eyebrow. Was he mocking him? Derek, who had never cracked a smile or told a joke even at an event in the company of other people? Was he really mocking him when he was here trying to help?

"I never believed it was the Argents. After Gerard's death our relations have been good, honest." Stiles wasn’t expecting this statement, and it took him aback. Derek was referring to his parents’ death. The carriage incident that took their lives, and it was commonly perceived – by a rumor Stiles had never believed anyway— that it was the Argent family behind the assassinations and not common thieves.

"You suspect Peter?" 

Derek nodded. The silence around them was only disturbed by Derek's labored breaths. Stiles irritation was giving way to anger, as he stubbornly refused to accept that, at that moment, Derek was offering him his trust. He’d led Stiles to believe that he’d been a coward all this time, a man that didn't go against his uncle, blinded by the fact of him being family. 

"You could have at least told me of this," he said, pointing at the broken arrow on the table. 

The look Derek gave him was one of exhaustion, sadness, and also something else, something akin to disappointment. "How?"

"I don't know. You seemed willing to talk to me when you wanted me to be quiet in front of your uncle. We share a bed. We have private time."

"No one should know about me. If I got caught...." 

"Your guards knew."

"My guards are loyal to me, friends even. Besides, you were in too much danger already, what with defending the vigilante at every opportunity."

"You thought I'd betray you?" Even after everything he had said defending the Black Wolf? Defending him? That hurt. But, the thing was, Stiles had never tried to fix their relationship. It was only fair that Derek wouldn't trust him. 

"I trust you." The words were easy and Stiles found some relief in them despite knowing Derek offered them out of courtesy. 

"You don't know how to lie."

"I have never lied to you." Stiles gave him a once over, gesturing at his clothes and his condition. "This wasn't a lie. You never asked me, I never denied."

"You lied to me no matter what you want to believe. I would have wanted to help if I knew; you should know that.”

Derek sighed, words on his lips that didn’t find a way out, but Stiles could see them. “It was too dangerous for you.” Stiles knew it wasn’t what Derek wanted to say. Repeating how dangerous it was wasn’t going to make him change his mind. Unless…

“He threatened you.” It wasn’t a question. Peter played without honor and personal threats weren’t beyond him. “He threatened you with… me? That’s why you were so persistent on changing the way I spoke to him.” Derek closed his eyes, defeated, his head falling back against the wall, his face more white now than when he was bleeding.

Stiles would like to say “I don’t believe it” or “You’re lying” or “You don’t care about me so you shouldn’t have—“, but none of this was true, he knew it deep down to the marrow of his bones and the knowledge filled him with a morbid mixture of desperation and hope. Derek had protected him. Derek cared. Derek was a man Stiles would be proud to call husband.

And it was his turn. To protect and care of him.

“You won’t return immediately. Take a couple of days. If he sees you walking stiff and in pain he will become suspicious. Use as an excuse that you have needs I cannot fulfill.”

“Stiles.”

“And then we will put in action my plan.”

“Stiles.”

“No. Don’t. My turn.”

 

***

 

“Let me look at your wound. We can’t let it get infected.”

“No.”

“Why not? The poultice I made this time is a miraculous thing. You see, I added some willow bark in the mixture with calendula and comfrey leaves instead of just providing you with its broth. It’ll kill any infection, considering the wound has not festered for too long, and relief from the burning sensation around it. At least you aren’t running a fever. Are you?”

Stiles approached him, extending his hand to place it on his temple to check his temperature when Derek took a step back. The hurt in Stiles’ eyes was new and despite the pang of guilt, it was also satisfying. After finding out about him, Stiles had been persistent in helping him in any way possible. Admittedly, having Stiles worry about him filled him with warmth, but at the same time, it made him paranoid that Stiles wasn’t worrying about him because he was Derek but because he was the Black Wolf.

Derek tried to ignore it and continue putting on his shirt, being half naked in front of him for the first time made his skin tremble. Buttoning from the bottom up, he allowed himself a look at Stiles whose gaze was now lost in the view out of the window, the same view once Derek had been looking at when he had asked for a chance.

“It’s not that I don’t want your help,” Derek heard himself say. “But you have been so cold for so long… I don’t know anymore.”

Stiles took a deep breath before saying, “My mother used to say that you should allow tears to run, let them fall on the ground so that you can be able to retrace your steps and find your way.”

Derek frowned slightly, the words hitting a soft spot inside him but otherwise making no sense to him. “I haven’t the faintest idea what that might mean.”

Stiles looked at him. “Me neither,” he shrugged leisurely, his long fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “Sometimes I think it means to not be afraid to feel, because it’s the only way to move forwards. Other times… other times it feels like emotions are the very reason for our existence, and without them we have nothing. No past. No present. No future.” The expression on his face was tentative, as if looking at a picture in his mind and trying to bring it to surface. “It’s been a long time since I decided to deny my feelings.”

Feelings.

“I was wrong about you.”

Huffing, Derek averted his eyes. “Hardly.”

“I thought you a coward, a man without care beyond his well-being. I was obviously wrong, considering the fact that you’ve been fighting for this kingdom for so long, don’t you think?”

“I can’t change anything.”

“You have already changed the lives of many. If only I wasn’t blinded by my anger… I took it out on you, Derek. My own incompetence.”

“What?”

“Don’t be surprised,” he said, his face illuminated by a sad smile that pained Derek’s heart. “I blamed you for not doing anything to save your land from the hands of Peter and yet, here I was doing exactly the same. And by ‘doing exactly the same’, I surely mean ‘nothing’.”

What was there to do, though? Derek had been trying for years and the best thing he could achieve was the least for the benefit of his people. There was no action that could change the situation, no law that hadn’t been altered by Peter, no means to help.

“The confusion shows on your face like a painting with bright colors.” Stiles’ finger pointed between his eyebrows, in safe distance from his eyes. “Here. A furrow deep, but soft.”

He wasn’t confused, but he didn’t tell him. “Stiles, there was… there is nothing you can do for this land.”

“And yet, you found a way.” Stiles reached and took hold of Derek’s hand, holding it gently. “Like I said, I was wrong about you.”

The breath caught in Derek’s throat as Stiles’ thumb caressed his knuckles with a care he would never have imagined could be intended for him. “Stiles…”

“What? I’m a man who accepts his mistakes. I only hope it’s not late.” And then his face fell. “Oh no, is it too late? Is this what you’re saying? I mean, what you’re not saying because you don’t talk too much, do you?” Stiles carded his free hand through his hair nervously, eyes darkening with worry, the hold Derek's’ fingers tightening. 

Derek swallowed, shoving his insecurities out of the way and forced himself to ask, “Late for what?” And hope.

Stiles made an awkward gesture between them. “For us.”

“You said your heart was for someone else.”

Stiles’ look took a dreamy and warm expression, and Derek wished it was addressed to him. “Lydia. She was my first love. But… she never loved me the way I wanted, and I never had any chance with her.” Taking a loud breath, Stiles continued, “I never wanted this marriage. I had to hold onto something.”

Derek frowned. “You said—“

“Of course I did. I’m only talking, haven’t you figured this out yet?”

Shaking his head, Derek tried again because he couldn’t go through this only to have misunderstood the entire situation. It would shred him to pieces if he was wrong. “You said you couldn’t love me.”

“I did. And if you weren’t the brave man I met the other night, I would have kept burying any fond feelings I had for you for the rest of my life.”

Fond feelings. “Stiles.”

But Stiles said nothing. He only brought Derek’s hand to his mouth, which was still in his after all this time, and kissed it. And then turned it and tapped a soft kiss on the inside of his wrist, warm lips against thin skin. Derek’s heart melted, his chest tight at the tenderness. It had been so long…

“Derek, no. Please, no…” Stiles’ fingers wiped the outer corner of his eyes that had gone wet, his worry so palpable in his deep voice that it reverberated in Derek’s body. “Your ground would get wet easily,” Stiles said with a gentle smile. “Allow me to get to know you, Derek. To care for you and help you.”

The words he had longed to hear were there, offered to him by a man Derek wished was his companion, and his mind was empty, or so full, that he couldn’t answer. He nodded.

Stiles’ smile brightened, and he kissed the sensitive skin of his wrist again, sending a sweet shiver down his spine. Derek opened his mouth to say that he wanted to do the same for him, that he wanted to try being his friend, his husband, but was interrupted by the door that swung open as the king’s guards flooded the room.

“Derek of the Haleland, you are under arrest for conspiracy and treason against the King.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Also, I'm not a doctor, and the herbs part was a quick research so I'm sorry for any inaccuracies.)
> 
>  
> 
> [ Come say hi on tumblr! ](http://apinkducky.tumblr.com/)


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